


Achillea Nobilis: a posy of war

by la_topolina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animagus Severus Snape, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Friends to Enemies, Gryffindor Severus Snape, Gryffindor!Snape, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, Major Original Character(s), Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Severus Snape Has a Heart, Severus Snape-centric, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22458883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_topolina/pseuds/la_topolina
Summary: "…I sometimes think we sort too soon…"—Albus Dumbledore,Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, Chapter 33, The Prince’s Tale; by J. K. RowlingSorted into Gryffindor in 1971, Severus Snape would lay down his life for Lily Evans and the other Marauders—and the War sinking its teeth into the Wizarding World seems all too happy to oblige him.An AU featuring gryffindor!Severus and slytherin!Miranda
Relationships: Alice Longbottom/Frank Longbottom, Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Lily Evans Potter/Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. Borage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borage: Courage, Talent, Bluntness, Rudeness

1 September 1971

Severus Snape grimaced as the tattered hat slid down over his eyes and nose. He didn’t like his vision being obscured any more than he liked looking ridiculous. Even the knowledge that all of the other first years were being subjected to the same ignominious ritual did little to soothe his irritation. Why this operation had to be performed as an entertainment for the rest of the school was beyond his comprehension. As he struggled to keep his mind on the task at hand, it insisted on dredging up all manner of mocking remarks that his father would no doubt make if he were to see his son sitting before an audience with his head engulfed in this sorry excuse for a hat.

“Sorry excuse for a hat? I would call that out of line, don’t you agree?” whispered a voice in his ear.

The boy jumped and fisted his hands in his lap to keep himself from moving further.

“I beg your pardon,” he mumbled.

“No need. I’ve been called worse than that by better people than you,” the hat chuckled. “And there’s no need to talk, either. Just think. I can see everything I require right here in your head.”

“Are you reading my mind?” Severus thought, offended by the mere idea.

“Reading is such a vulgar term for what I do. But we’d best not take the time to get into all that now. I can see Miss Yaxley is veritably bursting out of her robes to have her turn.”

“What am I to do?”

“Just relax and answer my questions.”

He bristled at the order to relax. “How do you expect me to relax with you digging around in my head?”

“Do your best. Now let me see…you have quite a few brains packed away between these ears of yours, haven’t you? And coupled with this burning desire to prove yourself, Slytherin might be the place for you…but then, so might Ravenclaw.”

“My mother was in Slytherin.”

“Yes, I remember. Was she happy there?”

“I…don’t know.” He had a hard time picturing his mother happy at all.

“Inauspicious. But what have we here? Loyalty abounding—at least to that lovely girl I saw a few moments ago. Where did I put her?”

“Gryffindor.”

“Yes, very loyal indeed. Perhaps Hufflepuff is the place for you.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“It’s for sissies.”

“It most certainly is not. Where did you get _that_ idea?”

Severus could feel his face getting hot, and it wasn’t from the lack of air circulation under the hat.

“Mother said so.”

“I’m sorry to tell you that your mother is misinformed. But let’s not argue about it—there are three other perfectly fine houses from which to choose. What about Gryffindor?”

“I thought you said I had brains.”

“You do….Ah, I see, you appear to be under the impression that Gryffindors are stupid.”

“Aren’t they?”

“Is Lily stupid?”

“No…”

“There you have it…hmm…” Severus shifted uncomfortably as he felt the hat poking and prodding. “There’s a lions share of bravery lurking in here. Look at the way you stood up for your mother.”

Severus straightened at the unexpected compliment. He couldn’t remember anyone ever referring to him as brave.

“Well, my boy,” the hat went on, “what say we if you choose where you wish to go?”

“Me?”

“Yes, I think that is the best course of action in this case. You have the potential to do well in whichever House claimed you.”

Severus forgot to breathe as he considered. “But what if I pick the wrong one?”

“You’ve already decided against Hufflepuff, yes?”

“Right.”

“Does Ravenclaw tug at your heart?”

For all his protestations about brains, the House of the wise did nothing to fire his imagination. “No.”

“Then we have Slytherin and Gryffindor. Let’s play a game. I’m going to toss a coin in the air…”

“But you don’t have any hands.”

“Never mind that. I’m tossing a coin in the air. Heads Gryffindor, tails Slytherin. Ready?”

“But how can you toss a coin if you don’t have any hands?”

“Leave that to me. One, two, three!”

“I hope it lands on heads,” he thought suddenly.

“You see!”

“No, I don’t.”

“Whichever way you hoped the coin would land while it was in the air is what your heart truly desires. Will that do?”

Severus’s hands finally relaxed and he nodded firmly.

“Then I am pleased to present our newest GRYFFINDOR!”

*****

19 August 1978

“Lily, stop squirming or I’ll never get this finished,” Alice Shacklebolt chides as she attempts to plait Lily Evans’ auburn hair.

“I can’t help it! I’m so nervous,” Lily replies, popping up from her chair to peek out the window for the dozenth time in so many minutes. “Can’t we just leave it down?”

“I need to put enough of it up for the crown to sit on. Besides, you know you’ll hate it if it’s in your face all day,” Alice explains yet again. “Do you see Miranda yet?”

Lily plucks at the skirt of her long, jade colored sundress as she paces to the window overlooking the front lawn of the Potters’ tasteful country home. Everything in this house is well made and well loved, from the rich Persian rugs covering the hardwood floors, to the priceless paintings adorning the thick walls, to the sturdy but comfortable walnut furniture. She and Alice have been sequestered in the Potters’ bedroom for the last hour, preparing for the walk down to the church. This is supposed to be the happiest day of her life, but she feels like she’s being bitten by doxies all over.

“No. What if she doesn’t make it?”

“She’ll make it. She said she would, and she’s bringing your flowers. Now sit down and let me finish.”

“Do you think that James is this nervous?” Lily asks as she obeys Alice’s command.

“I bet he’s even more nervous.” Alice smiles at her friend in the mirror and her dark fingers fly over the red locks, tugging them into shape around the top of Lily’s head.

“You’re probably right. But he’ll be there, won’t he?”

Alice keeps a firm hold on the plait in her hands to prevent Lily from jumping up again.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course he’ll be there.”

The door opens to admit Miranda Rose, balancing an armful of white lilies and sweet williams in her arms. The heady, spicy fragrance of the flowers fills the room, floating on the summer morning breeze that whispers in through the open window. Lily reflexively tries to stand and yelps when Alice doesn’t let go of her hair.

“You’re here!” Lily cries, sitting back down and fidgeting with her skirt again.

“Were you worried?” Miranda asks, setting the bouquet on Mr and Mrs Potter’s four poster bed. The carved birds in the headboard flutter in surprise, before returning to their game of hide and seek.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“She’s nervous,” Alice puts in helpfully.

“Hmm,” Miranda frowns, studying Lily’s pale face with mock concern. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? There’s still time to call the whole thing off.”

“Oh, you!” Lily laughs.

“I’m serious!” Miranda’s grey eyes are dancing. “You can do better than James Potter.”

“I know,” Lily says. “But I don’t want to.”

Miranda hands the crown of sweet williams to Alice, who sets it atop Lily’s circle of braids, attaching it with a temporary sticking charm. The white flowers blush as they reflect the rich color of Lily’s hair, and when she catches the full effect in the mirror, Lily feels the imaginary doxies melt away. She is more sure of this than she has been of anything in her life.

“Nice work, Alice,” Miranda says, perching on the edge of the bed.

“Thank you. She does clean up nice, doesn’t she?” Alice quips, putting her arms around Lily’s shoulders for a quick hug. “And you’re next.”

“Me?” Miranda protests. “I put on a dress and I washed my face and hands before I came.”

“Better humor her, Miranda” Lily warns, rising and drawing Miranda over to the chair at the vanity. “She’s got that determined look in her eye.”

Miranda rolls her eyes, but sits down and pulls the tie out of her hair, letting the tangled silver mass spring free.

“Fine. I figured you’d insist on taming my mane anyway, so I didn’t even bother combing it this morning.” She sticks her tongue out at her reflection. “You’re wasting your time though.”

“It’s mine to waste. Besides, your neck and shoulders are too pretty to hide,” Alice says as she starts detangling the mess. “And your hair is worth paying attention to.”

“Someday I’m going to chop the whole of it off, up to my ears. Who ever heard of a seventeen-year-old with grey hair?”

“Don’t do that!” Lily laughs. “I love your hair. And doesn’t one of your brothers have hair the same color?”

“Yes, but he’s going to be a priest. Grey hair will make him look more distinguished. Mine just makes me look old.”

“That is _so_ not true, and you know it.”

“Anyway,” Miranda flinches as Alice attacks a particularly nasty snarl, “we’re supposed to be talking about _you_. It’s your wedding day, after all.”

Lily immediately starts to pace and twist her skirt again.

“See what you’ve gone and done,” Alice complains. “She’d just calmed down and you got her all nervous again.”

“I’m not nervous,” Lily counters, twirling around and letting her skirt billow up about her. She closes her eyes as she spins and the perfume of her floral coronet fills her nose. She is the fairy princess in all of the stories. “I’m ecstatic!”

*****

“What do you mean you don’t have the rings?” James Potter’s face turns from red to white as anger gives way to panic, and his hands are fisted at his sides in such a fashion that indicates that he is itching to land a hex—or a punch—on his best man’s grinning mug.

Sirius Black shrugs and makes a show of straightening his tie in the mirror. The lighting in the dusty church hall is not the best, but with the standing mirror and the charmed wardrobe, it does well enough for the menfolk to shrug into their formalwear and cool their heels until the show begins.

“I mean I don’t have ‘em,” Sirius replies. “Rheingold’s is open on Monday morning. I’ll nip down and pick ‘em up then.”

“Monday? I need them now!”

“What for?”

“I’m getting married _today_ you wanker!”

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you’ve got us all up in these monkey suits.” Sirius tugs at his collar and mimes choking.

“Knock it off, Padfoot, before Prongs has an attack,” Severus drawls as he finishes his buttons. “I have the rings.”

“Yeah, Echo was afraid I’d drop ‘em or something,” Sirius grins.

“Well, you probably would’ve,” James replies, making a mangled attempt at arranging his tie.

“I still think you should’ve gone with the dress and the bonnet, Echo,” Sirius says, swinging himself onto a table while they wait to be called upstairs.

Severus slaps James’s shaking hands away and takes over the operation himself. “You’re only disappointed you didn’t have the excuse to wear one yourself,” he shoots back. “Something in a nice puce to bring out the putrid color of your eyes.”

“Nah, I’d have gone with a little red number and some spiked heels. Do wonders for my calves.”

“And they’d make your arse look like a mimbulus mimbletonia.”

“Watch I don’t spray you with stink sap!”

“Will you two stop!” James interjects. “This is supposed to be serious.”

“Than you shouldn’t have invited him,” Severus points out dryly.

“Aww, is little Prongsy nervous about the wedding night?” Sirius adds. “It’s easy, y’see, when a man and a woman love each other very much…”

Sirius never gets to complete his explanation, for it is cut off by Fleamont Potter’s unnecessarily loud entrance. This is an old custom, born of Fleamont’s desire to avoid catching his progeny’s misbehavior that he might also avoid the trouble of curbing it.

“How strange,” he says with a wry smile, “I was sent to collect three gentlemen to join me at the altar, but guess you’ll have to do.”

James embraces his father warmly, and Sirius and Severus take their turns receiving a hearty handshake.

“Is it time?” James asks, a little too sharply.

“It is. Are you ready?”

“I was born ready.”

“He’s scared to death,” Severus remarks.

“He should be,” Sirius adds. “Lily’s too good for him.”

“But she’ll be here, won’t she?” James’s voice quavers and his friends take pity on him.

“Course she will, mate,” Sirius reassures him.

“You’ve always been the luckiest of us,” Severus points out. “And I don’t believe that luck will run out today.”

*****

Severus has never seen her look so beautiful.

The simplicity of her raiment sets off her natural splendor and makes anything more ostentatious seem tawdry in comparison. She spares a smile for him as she clings to her father’s arm on their procession up the flower-strewn aisle, and he cannot help but return it, measure for measure. He hears James whistle under his breath when he spots his bride, and he braces himself to catch the man if he should decide to take this moment to swoon. But James manages to stay on his feet, and when Lily turns her radiance on him, he stands a little straighter, like a plant reaching for the sun.

There was a time when this show of love would have roused jealousy and anger in Severus’s breast, but now he can watch the display with a mixture of amusement and joy. If an arrogant toerag like James Potter can win the heart of a woman like Lily Evans, perhaps there is hope that one day Severus Snape might do the same.

When all are gathered, the wizened priest begins the proceedings. The ceremony is a blur of good will and solemnity, and Severus is impressed by the reverence with which even Sirius Black comports himself. They flank the wedding couple, Sirius on James’s right and Severus on Lily’s left, and neither sentinel wavers an instant during the rite, until the moment when the rings are required.

Severus retrieves them from his pocket; a matched pair of goblin-wrought gold, finely etched with twined almond branches. They are so warm to the touch that they nearly burn his skin, and he hastily hands them over to their rightful owners. As James and Lily plight their troth and slide each ring onto its waiting finger, Severus can see a brilliant flash of light pulsing from one ring to its mate. He wonders if the magic is due to the craft of the jewelers, or due to the love of the wearers, and he makes a note to investigate this mystery at the nearest opportunity.

As soon as he can escape from the photographs and the congratulations, he does, slipping out of the stuffy church in search of a quiet space to think. Sirius has beaten him to the shade of the old oak tree, and the heat of the day causes Severus to join his his fellow there, although he knows this will not lead to repose.

“Nice work, Echo,” Sirius says, offering him a cigarette. “You didn’t trip or nothing.”

“Neither did you, to my surprise,” Severus replies, taking the smoke and lighting it with his wand.

They stand together, smoking and sweating, leaning against the wide trunk. Sirius has already untied his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Severus deliberately keeps his finery in place.

“They really did it,” Sirius remarks.

“So it would seem.”

“You think they’re gonna go and have a bunch of rug rats right off?”

“Probably. And then they’ll expect us to babysit for them.”

Sirius punches him in the shoulder. “I can see it now. You’ll be teaching them the _levicorpus_ and I’ll have ‘em flying circles around the house before they can say Mama.”

Severus shudders at the thought. “Perhaps Remus should do the babysitting.”

“Perhaps I should do what?” asks Remus as he joins them in the shade.

“Padfoot, Echo, you got one for me?” pipes Peter, arriving on Remus’s coattails.

“It’ll cost you,” Sirius says, flipping a cigarette to both of the newcomers.

“Aww, come on. You’re always bumming smokes from me. Is everything ready for later?”

“If you haven’t blown it by yapping about it,” Severus remarks.

“Don’t you think we should give them a break?” Remus says. “It’s their wedding day.”

“You think Prongs would let any of us off that easy? Not that any lady would be dumb enough to marry the likes of us,” Sirius replies, openly admiring one of Potter’s more eligible cousins until she blushes and turns away.

Severus finishes his smoke and crushes the butt under the heel of his polished shoe. “I have to go. I promised Lily I would keep the parents from doing all the work at the house alone.”

“I’ll come with you,” Remus says. “Many wands make light work.”

“Like I said Echo, you make a beautiful bridesmaid.” Sirius quips.

Severus rolls his eyes and flicks his wand, and Sirius yelps as the stinging hex hits him. He tries to send one back, but is laughing too hard to aim well. By the time he recovers enough to make another attempt, Severus and Remus are halfway up the street, drinking in a summer afternoon that is full of life and possibilities.

They couldn’t ask for a better day.

*****

“ _Workin’ for the man every night and day…”_

Sirius Black has enthroned himself in the gazebo by the fish pond with his guitar. Frank Longbottom is to his right, keeping time with a set of bones that click between his fingers with astonishing precision for a man who has trouble walking through a room without tripping. The wedding guests loiter about the neatly manicured lawn, admiring the rose garden, picking at the barbecue and trimmings; all eating ‘just one last’ helping of the smoked pork, the crisp salads, and the perfectly ripe peaches and plums.

“Did you get enough to eat Sev?” Lily asks. Her circuit of the yard has brought her at last to the porch, where Severus is lounging comfortably on the white-painted swing, watching the proceedings like a lazy cat.

“More than enough,” he reassures her. “I don’t think I’ll eat again until Tuesday.”

He slides over to make room for her, and she takes the opportunity to sit with him for a few moments. They are quiet at first, he remembering the first time he saw her on the rundown playground in Cokeworth, until she breaks the silence with a sigh.

“I wish Petunia had come,” she says, and he can see an ominous brightness in her eye.

“I, for one, am glad she did not come,” he replies frankly. “Her sunny disposition would have added nothing to the festivities.”

This wins a laugh. “I know, but she is my sister. And she did help Mum with the cake.”

“That was decent of her,” he allows. “Let’s leave it at that and not ruin the gesture by contemplating her person.”

She shakes her head at him, then throws her arms around his shoulders. “I’m going to miss you, friend.”

His arms go around her, in spite of the crowd of witnesses. “I doubt that. But thank you for saying it.”

“No, I mean it. Everything’s changing. It’s all going to be so different. Six weeks ago we were in Gryffindor tower at Hogwarts, and now I’m married. In six more weeks we’ll all be at our new jobs, living in new places. It’s weird. And I _will_ miss you.”

“Life is change.”

“I know. Is it strange to be happy about something and broken hearted at the same time?”

He pulls back and raises an eyebrow at her. “That sounds like a particularly female difficulty,” he teases.

“Come on, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Cousin Lily,” cries a small girl belonging to the Potter clan as she skips up onto the porch. “Did you forget about the cake?”

“I did not forget. Is it time?” Lily asks, allowing the child to grab her by the hand and lead her away in search of James.

The work of Emily and Petunia Evans’ nervous Muggle hands stands proudly on a table near the porch. It is covered with well crafted, but gaudy roses of pink icing, and it sparkles with gold shot. Once the bridal couple cut into the creation, Emily Evans, Euphemia Potter, and several of the aunts make short work of pressing pieces on guests, regardless of the desire of the recipient. Severus accepts his slice of the confection without protest, slowly savoring the rum-soaked layers.

“ _Some day, when I’m awfully low…_ ”

As Frank and Sirius strike up the next song, James claims Euphemia and Charles Evans finds Lily. The couples convene on the grass near the gazebo, two-stepping as they talk and laugh. When the amateur band launches into the Beatles’ song that Sirius has been obsessively practicing for months, the older generation steps aside. Lily and James come together seamlessly, dancing and looking so idiotically happy that it is impossible to watch them unmoved.

Sirius manages to undercut the romance by following this with a Bowie number, and the guests start to pair off to join the dancing. The children run between the couples, whooping and twirling. Peter takes a turn with Marlene McKinnon, and Remus manages to keep up with Dorcas Meadows, although only just. Alice drifts over to the gazebo, swaying to Frank’s beat and refusing to look at him. Sirius is completely in his element; important and unreachable all at the same time.

The back door of the house swings open, and a bevy of eligible maidens emerges. Severus is well and truly trapped, and as the ladies take note of the dancing with interest sparking in their bright eyes, he braces himself to take the office he will soon be conscripted for. He has full confidence in his dancing abilities, but he hates to partner with strangers or nodding acquaintances. Small talk is the bane of his existence, and he would do much to avoid its awkward clutches.

“There aren’t enough blokes here,” complains Hestia Jones, straightening her yellow skirt. “James should’ve expanded the invite list a little.”

“You know he wanted to keep things small,” Emmeline Vance replies as she flips her dark curls. “But it doesn’t help that two of the fellows are making up the band.”

“Why don’t we take matters into our own hands and dance with each other?” Miranda asks.

Severus freezes at the sound of her American twang, still coloring her voice even after three years on British soil.

“But what have we here?” says Hestia, a predatory gleam in her eye. “Don’t lurk in the corner, Sev. Dance with one of us, your choice.”

Emmeline and Hestia are friendly enough, but Miranda turns to him slowly, giving him plenty of time to admire the way her peacock blue sundress clings to the curves of her body. She presents him with a parody of a smile that does nothing to warm the cool depths of her eyes, and he frowns at her, his blood already boiling. But then, she’s always been able to get a rise out of him.

“Yeah, _Sevie_ ,” she mocks, knowing full well how much he hates that name, especially on her lips. “It’s your duty to take pity on one of us poor little wall-flowers.”

The challenge demands an answer; and though he should ignore her taunts for the sake of the uneasy peace between them, his pride forces him to engage rather than to retreat. He leaves his half-eaten slice of cake on the seat of the porch swing, stalks towards her, and deliberately favors her with an ironic bow and an extended hand.

“Then I will dance with you, _Randi_ ,” he replies, scooping up the gauntlet she’s thrown and drawing out her own hated nickname with exquisite pleasure.

Her cheeks flame red—the one part of her countenance that she’s never quite learned to master—but she takes his hand and and lets him lead her out onto the lawn. Her fingers are cool to the touch, but they send a spark of awareness through him that he wishes weren’t there. Sirius is plucking a mellower serenade, and Severus masochistically pulls Miranda into the intimate embrace of a foxtrot. She goes without argument, enveloping him in the scent of lavender mixed with something earthier until he has to fight to keep his mind from spinning away into nonsense.

“ _All the pleasures of love will not be mine when I'm gone…_ ”

“The flowers are from your parents’ shop?” he blurts, unable to stand the way that she stares up at him, her soul hidden from view.

“Yes,” she answers blandly. “Fresh this morning.”

“They did a fine job.”

“They always do.”

She lets the conversation die, and he mentally snatches at threads in an attempt to restart it; anything to distract himself from the desire to pull her in the rest of the way and wipe that aloof expression off her face with a kiss. He knows she would likely bite him if he were to try, and he fumes at himself that he is in this position in the first place. If he had any sense at all, he would have asked Hestia or Emmeline instead; or even gone inside to help with the bloody dishes—anything is preferable to being here, dancing with this cordial, frosty Miranda who combats his assays with the poison of indifference.

“Are you planning to continue working for them?” he asks, pleased that his voice is steady, even as his temper rises.

“No.”

He feels his nostrils flair and sees a spark of laughter in her eyes. She is goading him, but the thrill of any reaction at all is enough to fuel his resolve.

“Then the rumors about your taking the job at the mill are true after all.”

“Sure, what else would I do? Your father’s put in the good word for me and everything.”

The mention of his father quashes whatever enjoyment he was gleaning from this encounter. He falls silent, as she no doubt intended by broaching the forbidden subject, but he stubbornly finishes the dance. Sirius pauses to smoke at the end of the song, and Severus holds onto Miranda, wishing he could divine the perfect retort that would be both rejoinder and reconciliation. Unfortunately, all that is coming to mind is something along the lines of _Fuck off, why don’t you_ ; and _Merlin, you look bloody fit in that dress._ He is not willing to commit to either sentiment.

“Thanks for the dance, Sev,” she says, unsmiling as she pulls out of his arms.

He lets her go, and before he can reply, she is striding towards the gazebo, mounting the stairs and issuing orders.

“Frank!” she calls, her voice friendly, but commanding, “give me a turn with the bones and go dance with Alice, will you? There’s too many girls here to have you and Sirius holed up all night like a couple of love birds.”

“You aren’t ashamed to play with me?” asks Sirius, his tone a tick too sharp to be jesting.

“Course I’m ashamed. But Alice’ll mope for days if she doesn’t get at least one dance with Mr Longbottom tonight.”

“I know better than to argue with the likes of you!” Frank laughs, handing over the bones and hightailing it for the safety of the lawn.

Sirius dives into the opening chords of _Werewolves of London_ , and Severus can see Miranda’s face flush red again, even as she starts clicking the bones in a steady rhythm. Remus ducks into the house, obviously uncomfortable, and Severus reflects, not for the first time, that Sirius Black is surely one of the most thoughtless people of his acquaintance.

“You sure you can keep up with me, Rose?” Sirius taunts, picking up the pace.

Miranda catches him easily and retorts, “You’ve never been able to beat me yet, Black, and you never will.”

*****

The moon is high in the sky, and Miranda’s wrist is aching, by the time Sirius finally takes another smoke break. He actually takes the trouble to offer her a cigarette, but she declines it cooly, rolling her hands to combat the strain of keeping up with him. It’s been a long time since she’s had the chance to play for this long, and she knows she’ll be paying for it in the morning.

James and Lily appear on the porch, dressed in traveling robes and holding their brooms. Sirius leans back to watch them wave good bye, sly pleasure evident in his expression. Miranda observes him out of the corner of her eye as the bridal couple push off the ground to soar lazily over the heads of the cheering guests. Lily tosses her bouquet over her shoulder, and the white flowers land in Alice’s waiting hands. Frank looks away, whistling innocently, and Alice hides her face with her prize.

“Wait for it…” Sirius breathes as James and Lily start off towards their honeymoon of bliss.

The pair is hovering over the fish pond when a loud bang interrupts the flight, accompanied by a flash of black powder that covers the bride and groom from head to toe. Sirius abandons his guitar and sprints towards the house, but James and Lily have already changed course and are speeding after him. He is laughing so hard that he stumbles, and when he stops rolling he gives up the escape attempt. James and Lily catch him under the arms, fly him around the gazebo, and dump him in the pond like a sack of fish feed.

“Hey!” Sirius sputters when he resurfaces. “You think I did that all by my lonesome?”

“I know you couldn’t have pulled it off by yourself,” James calls.

He and Lily dart off after the other three Marauders, dousing them with sprays of _aguamenti_. Wormtail tries to crouch behind Marlene, who will have none of it, and she eagerly offers him up for punishment. Remus is next to be soaked, but he walks freely into his doom with his arms outstretched. Severus lasts the longest, being the most successful at skulking in shadows, but eventually Lily finds him behind the arbor.

“You git!” she yells, buzzing so close to him that he has to roll across the lawn to avoid impact. “This is a new robe!”

“Be glad you escaped so lightly. Padfoot wanted to pull something involving a chastity belt and a permanent sticking charm,” Severus replies, his teeth flashing in the darkness.

“How do we get this off?”

“I suspect Prongs will have an idea or two.”

Lily sticks her tongue out at him, but swoops back into the air towards her new husband without further retaliation. Their laughter echoes across the lawn as they resume their journey northward, and Miranda watches their course until long after they have disappeared from view.

The night breeze turns chilly, and she finally notices that the party is beginning to break up. The four remaining Marauders have gathered at the edge of the fish pond, where they take turns shoving each other into the water. Her eyes linger on Severus’s lean form long enough that he notices, and she pulls back when he turns to frown at her. She feels her body flash hot and cold, and she abandons the bones on the bench in order to flee. Although she keeps her pace even, she knows that he is following her, she knows that she is running away, and she hates herself for her cowardice.

She cuts through the house, pausing only long enough to thank Euphemia for the invitation, and to remove her heeled sandals. They have been cutting into her feet for the last two hours, and she can move more quickly without them slowing her down. Then she is out the front door, and she breaks into a run as she hurries down the cobblestone lane, searching for the edge of the Potters’ wards.

At the crossroads she cannot help looking back. Severus is standing on the front stoop, staring after her. She Disapparates before she can find out if he intends to follow her further.

*****

Miranda’s flat is tucked into a cul-de-sac at the end of a quiet street on the outskirts of Muggle London. While she would have preferred to stay at home with her parents and her brothers, the closer she came to graduation, the clearer it became that doing so might have driven her mad on more levels than one. The pressures inside and outside the Rose family are many, and it remains to be seen whether these pressures will refine them, or crush them completely.

She pads up the creaky stairs, gamely scratching whatever cat presents itself to her behind its ears. Her downstairs neighbor, Mrs Figg, is a batty old woman; but Miranda has yet to complain about her feline army, and she has yet to complain about any odd smells or sounds from Miranda’s flat.

At the top of the stairs, Miranda finally stops running, and the memory of Severus’s hands on her body pounces on her, as though it has been waiting for her to halt. She rests her head against her bare front door, angrily chasing the sensations that threaten to upset her precarious equilibrium. When she catches them she will push them to the back of her mind with all the other things that are dangerous to feel. She is so intent on her self-mastery that she almost misses the way that her key does not stick in the lock the way it usually does.

Someone is inside; and they most likely know she is here.

She slides her wand out of the pocket of her sundress and slowly pushes open the door. As she enters her compromised sanctuary, she hums to herself, acting as if she were unaware of her plight. When the door is closed behind her, she walks straight into the middle of the dark living room. The drapes are shut tight against the summer night, and the shadowy lumps before her might be assassins. But they also might be the radiator.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, and snaps her fingers to ignite the candles in the wall sconces.

There are six of them surrounding her. Black cloaks. Etched masks. Wands drawn.

Death Eaters, all.

“Hello gentlemen,” she says. Her Papa would be proud to hear how steady her voice is. “What can I do for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The novel and chapter titles are inspired by Victorian flower language:  
> Achillea Nobilis, or the noble yarrow, represents War and Power to Overcome.
> 
> Borage represents Courage, Talent, Bluntness, Rudeness
> 
> Many many thanks also to DanyFire and Felpata_Lupin for beta-ing this chapter!
> 
> Sirius is playing the following songs at the wedding reception:
> 
> Proud Mary by John Cameron Fogerty 
> 
> The Way You Look Tonight by Dorothy Fields and Jerome Kern
> 
> Something by George Harrison (not quoted)
> 
> Heros by Brian Eno, David Bowie, and Andrea Schroeder (not quoted)
> 
> When I’m Gone by Phil Ochs
> 
> Werewolves of London by Warren Zevon, Leroy P. Marinell, and Robert T. Wachtel


	2. Yellow Carnation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yellow Carnation: Disappointment, Rejection, Disdain

_picspam by the amazing crowsb4bros!_

__

14 November 1971

Two months’ residence in Gryffindor tower had not been long enough to enable Severus to feel completely at home within its imposing walls. Everything about the place was enormous, from his four poster bed, to the stone walls hung with ancient, heavy tapestries, to the cathedral-like windows, to the oversized chairs so large that he and Lily could sit together in one without crowding each another in the least. During the first few weeks, he’d been in the habit of treading through the space on tiptoe, afraid of spoiling the rich furnishings and being punished in retaliation. But as the late summer days had sighed away into autumn, he had gradually given up the habit of skulking through the rooms like an unwanted guest.

One Sunday afternoon in mid-November, he was perched on an armchair before the crackling fire, contentedly partaking of a bacon sandwich and a mug of cocoa. The feeling of being full was a novelty that still had not lost its wonder, although he no longer felt compelled to gorge himself at meal time, storing up food against the chance of starvation. The generous feasts that called themselves breakfast, luncheon, and dinner continually repeated themselves without fail; and the common room was a treasure trove of snack plates replenished by the house elves as soon as the students emptied them. His wand was sitting on the arm of the chair, and he was eagerly devouring _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ along with his snack. 

“Sev, are you finished with Professor McGonagall’s homework yet?” asked Lily as she tromped down the stairs from the girls’ dormitory. A frown was marring her freckled face, and Severus quickly tucked his book to one side to make room for her.

“Yes. Are you?” he replied, warmth spreading through him as Lily climbed up into the chair. The thought that he might even now be trapped down in the dungeon with the rest of Slytherin house while Lily graced the tower without him made him shudder at how narrow his escape had been.

“Almost,” she said, producing the length of crimson and gold polkadot fabric she’d been given to practice with. “I’m still having trouble changing the pattern. The dots all line themselves up, but they won’t turn into stripes.”

“I can help you,” he said confidently. “You’ve almost got it if they’re moving.”

“Really?” she asked hopefully. 

“Sure! Let’s give it a try.” He picked up his wand and waved it slowly over the fabric. “ _Aciem_.”

The golden dots quivered and stretched out into thin stripes running the length of the fabric. Another wand flick sent them back to dots, and Severus basked in the brightness of Lily’s smile.

“Now you,” he said, elbowing her.

“Okay,” she said uncertainly, drawing her wand. “ _Aciem_.”

The first wand flick produced nothing. A second set the dots vibrating. She started twirling the end of one of her auburn braids around her finger; a nervous habit she fell into when she was concentrating—or trying to fib. Finally she managed to send the dots marching into a line, but the elusive stripes refused to appear.

“See,” she complained, clearly frustrated.

“That wasn’t bad,” Severus encouraged. “Try picturing the lines on the fabric first. Really see in your mind how you want it to look. If you see it hard enough, then it’ll happen.”

She plucked up her determination and closed her eyes, her little brow crinkling as she focused. At last she flicked her wand over the fabric once more. The dots wavered like television static, and then stretched themselves out in neat lines over the fabric.

“Thanks Sev!” she said, beaming at him.

“I knew you could do it,” he replied. Gryffindor tower was the best place in the world. “You just have to trust yourself.”

They practiced for a while longer, and as the sun dipped lower in the sky, their housemates trickled into the common room, setting up for an evening of cramming. The buzz of laughter and conversation overtook the quiet of the room, and Severus began to find it difficult to concentrate on his work. As he shoved his book irritably into his bag, a loud commotion announced the arrival of his least favorite Gryffindors; and a golden ball with wings darted through the room. It hovered just above the students’ heads before diving down towards Severus and Lily. Lily shrieked and swatted ineffectively as the golden wings tangled in her braids; and James and Sirius crashed into them, knocking their chair over in the process. They landed in a tangled heap, and Severus started elbowing instinctively, grunting when he came into contact with Sirius’s nose. Sirius jerked away, yelping, and James caught hold of the hovering snitch as he rolled out of the fray. Severus helped Lily to her feet, holding her shaking hand until Sirius shoved him into the wall.

“Watch those elbows, Snape,” James sneered, gripping the struggling snitch in his hand. “Somebody might get hurt.”

“Watch yourself, Potter,” Severus sneered back. “ _You_ crashed into _us_.”

Sirius shoved Severus again. “I think we oughta take this outside.”

Lily grabbed onto Severus’s hand, tugging him away from the other boys. “Come on Sev, we’re done with our homework anyway. Let’s go outside while the sun’s still up.”

For a moment Severus was torn between his desire to go with Lily, and his desire to beat Potter and Black into a pulp. But Lupin and Pettigrew had gathered behind their fellows, and Severus doubted that he would come out the better if they all decided to attack him. He snatched his bag and stormed towards the portrait of the Fat Lady on Lily’s heels.

“That’s right Snape,” Sirius called after him. “Listen to Mummy!”

Severus’s hands clenched into fists of rage at his side. He’d get the better of Potter and Black someday. It was only a matter of time.

*****

29 August 1978

Sweat is rolling down Severus’s back by the time he rolls to a stop in front of the house at Spinner’s End late Tuesday afternoon. He dismounts and swings his bicycle onto his shoulder in one fluid motion, hiking up the short flight of stairs to the front door with a swiftness that belies the heat. The entryway is dim and cool, and he gives a sigh of relief as he sets his bicycle carefully against the wall. A quick survey of the shabby sitting room shows it to be empty, but his stomach still clenches as he cuts through it in search of water.

“Hot out, ain’t it?” Tobias asks as Severus pushes open the kitchen door.

“Yes,” he answers tersely. 

It is too late for him to escape his father’s notice, and he slinks to the sink, doing his best to keep his nerves from showing. The water runs brown when he turns on the tap, and he has to wait several agonizing moments until it is clear enough that he wishes to fill his glass with it. Casting _aguamenti_ is out of the question—it’s never worth provoking Tobias without cause—but he can feel his progenitor’s hooded eyes boring into the back of his head.

The water is blessedly cool, and he chases his first glassful with another in quick succession. He shuts off the tap and sets his glass in the sink, then turns to assess Tobias’s condition as one would observe a violent and unpredictable animal. The beast is apparently at ease, sitting with his booted feet propped up on a chair. The paper is in his hands and he is at least making a show of reading it. His pipe and tobacco are scattered across the table, along with a dog-eared copy of _Lolita_ , a half-empty bottle of gin, and a sweating glass full of melted ice. Two thick envelopes are sitting in the middle of the mess, and Severus can tell just by looking at them that they belong to his world, and not to his father’s.

“Those are for you,” Tobais says without looking up from the paper. 

His tone is perfectly congenial, but Severus knows better than to trust it. He reaches for them as though he is putting his hand into the basilisk’s den; his other hand ready to snatch his wand out of his pocket should that become necessary. When the envelopes are securely in his possession, he decides to take a calculated risk.

“I’m going out. Don’t wait up,” he says. Mother is working late tonight, and the thought of spending the evening in his father’s company is unbearable. 

“Suit yourself,” Tobias shrugs, eyes still on the paper.

Every muscle in Severus’s body is urging him to run, but he restrains himself to an unhurried walk until he has his bicycle back on his shoulder. Once his feet hit the top of the stairs outside the house, he is bounding down them, and he is halfway up the street before he hears the door bang open, and his father call his name in an feral snarl. He pedals furiously, and although he can see the man’s white-faced rage when he turns the corner, he is safely out of reach for now. With any luck, Tobias will drink himself into a stupor by the time Severus comes home; and like as not he’ll have forgotten the incident come morning.

Severus is halfway to the Evans’ house before he recalls that he will never find Lily waiting for him there again. A twinge of disappointment squeezes his heart, and he slows his bicycle for a moment, deciding where to go next. He supposes he could attempt to hunt down Remus or Sirius—or even Frank—but riding gives his body a way to vent its frustrations, and he finds himself heading for the swankier end of town, if Cokeworth can be said to have such a place.

The Rós Tearmann flower shop is a jeweled paradise, boldly perched in the no-man’s-land between the rough-and-tumble Mill House Pub of Cokeworth and the daintier townhouses of neighboring Coldfield. She’s a bonny lass, flashing her bright bouquets of gardenias, dahlias, and eponymous roses coquettishly in the window boxes, while the beguiling fragrance of the blooms seduces unwary passersby inside. Before he can think better of it, Severus parks his bicycle in the narrow alley beside the shop, casting a temporary sticking charm against the threat of any light-fingered ne’er-do-wells; and ducks into the cool, flower-strewn showroom just as the owner is turning the hand-painted sign from Open to Closed.

“Severus! How are you? I think you’ve grown a foot since I saw you last,” says Monica Rose, her smile crinkling her nose. She is a small woman, shorter than her daughter, and she carries herself with an ineffable grace reminiscent of a fairy queen.

“I don’t think that is quite true,” Severus replies, stooping to accept her embrace with more eagerness than he would care to admit. Affection is a rationed thing in the Snape household, meted out through miserly fingers—and the easy way that Monica mothers every living creature that drifts into her her sphere is a balm to Severus’s weary soul.

“What can I do for you? I don’t think I’ve seen you since Christmas at least. And congratulations on your graduation!”

“Thank you Mrs Rose. Is Finn around?”

“He’s finishing up the deliveries, but he’ll be back any minute now. Why don’t you go in the back and wait for him?”

“Thank you, I will.”

He is already heading through the stained-glass doors that Miranda’s brother Seamus painstakingly created when he hears Monica unwittingly twist the knife.

“Miranda’s out in the garden. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. She’s been missing everyone from school so,” Monica calls.

Severus grimaces, but it is too late to alter his course, however much he doubts Monica’s estimation of the situation. He should have known better than to take Miranda’s word about her employment seriously. 

“Thank you,” he mutters.

The back of the shop is a tidy mess of flowers in various stages of pruning, vases, damp soil, and odds-and-ends. This leads out to a walled garden bearing blossoms that would make even Nebuchadnezzer himself blanch green with envy. Chrysanthemums and gladiolus run riot over the beds, and Severus follows the cobblestone footpath all the way back to the regal rosebushes, his step slowing as he approaches. 

He finds her there, charming the buds against pests. Dressed in faded denim and a black Ziggy Stardust t-shirt, her silver hair twisted carelessly on top of her head, she looks every bit as enticing as she did in her finery ten days before. Pity she is no more attainable now than she was then.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder briefly and returning her eyes to the crimson blooms under her fingers.

His Gryffindor courage rises to the taunt, and he swings himself onto the bench beside her, boldly watching her work. 

“I might ask you the same question,” he replies. “I thought you weren’t working here any longer.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m here ’til the end of the summer, and that’s it. What about you? Still shelving books at the Cokeworth library? All twelve of them?”

“We’ve at least twenty now, so they can’t bear to part with me. I don’t know what they’ll do without me in September.”

She wordlessly finishes her spellwork, and the silence stretches on long enough that he almost decides to leave. When she finishes the end of the row, she disappears into the shrubbery, returning a few moments later with ice cold bottles of her father Conor’s home brewed ale. 

“To the Potters,” she says, clinking her bottle against his and lifting it to her criminally kissable lips.

“The Potters,” he replies, tasting the bitter, hoppy liquid and musing that it should be illegal to look as alluring in the simple act of drinking a pint as Miranda manages to do.

“So, where are you going to be working come September?” she asks, her face a sardonic mask as she joins him on the bench.

Wary of this show of camaraderie, but unwilling to back down from his post, he pulls his letters from his pocket and admits, “I’ve been waiting for the Ministry to reply about my applications. I think they’ve finally bothered to send me their decisions.”

Something like interest sparks in the depths of her cool gray eyes. “Well, are you going to open them?”

He smirks. “I wasn’t aware that you cared about anything that happened to me.”

The spark in her eyes flickers out. “I don’t.”

She stands up, and he catches her wrist, holding it in a light grip that she could break if she cared to. Her cheeks are red and he can’t tell if it is from the heat of the day that has yet to dissipate, or if she can perhaps feel a spark of the heat that scorches him whenever he touches her. When she doesn’t pull away, he stands, looking down at her upturned face, his eyes darting from her full lips to her enigmatic eyes and back.

“Miranda, I…”

“Severus Snape! How the hell are you?” calls Finn as he comes out into the garden. He is tall and lanky, daring the world to deny him his due as he barrels through it.

Miranda jerks back from Severus, taking a swig from her bottle and turning her blushes away from his view.

“Well,” Severus says, grasping the hand that Finn thrusts at him, and wishing that Miranda’s brother were leagues hence. “I’m well.”

“Glad to hear it. Miranda, go get one of those for me, would ya?” Finn replies.

“You’ve got two legs and two hands last I checked Finn,” Miranda says waspishly. “Get it yourself. Or better yet, finish this one. I’ve got places to be.”

Finn accepts both the partially drunk beer and his sister’s abrasiveness carelessly. “Have it your way. You coming home for dinner on Sunday? Columba’s going to be back from seminary.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll use Mrs Figg’s telephone to call Mama and let her know.”

She goes up on tiptoe to give Finn a kiss on the cheek, and escapes up the path and out through the shop. Severus watches her go, but Finn claps an arm around the Englishman’s shoulders, keeping him from succumbing to the instinct to chase her.

“Come on, Sev,” Finn says gamely, “Mama set a place for you at the dinner table, and it’s Aunt Sally night down at the Pub. Seamus wants a rematch from last week.”

“I thought he said I was forbidden to play against him. I seem to recall he accused me of cheating,” Severus replies.

“Nah. He’s determined to cream you, and Patrick and me are itchin’ to see you beat the pants off him again.”

Severus’s stomach rumbles at the mention of one of Monica’s hearty dinners. He puts the letters back in his pocket, deferring the knowledge of his fate, and follows the exiled American up to the Rose’s humble flat over the shop. It is good to know that he is welcome somewhere in Cokeworth tonight, and he knows that the atmosphere will be more comfortable without Miranda’s thorny presence to irritate it.

But what he would give for the chance to risk those brambles, that he might catch hold of the bloom inside.

*****

Miranda is back to back with Regulus Black, her hair still piled up in a messy bun, the house-issued iridescent snakeskin sarong clinging to her body and rippling like a living creature, her bare feet gripping the smooth, rubbery floor beneath them. Her black walnut wand feels good in her hand, and she keeps her attention focused on the ground before her, trusting Regulus to cover her back. Gnarled trees twist up around them, and the air is thick and sweet with the earthy smell of myrrh. A mist of white smoke wafts through the room, obscuring their view, but this only intensifies the thrill of the moment. A strange, low hum pulses through the floor, vibrating up Miranda’s legs. She tenses, letting her eyes drift half closed, riding the high of the smoke and the hunt. 

There is a flash of movement in the corner and she leaps. Regulus is moving too, rolling away from her, both of them firing curses that ricochet off the walls. A pair of occamys lunge through the room, their undulating bodies a strange contrast to the sharp feathers of their madly beating wings. The hiss of the monsters merges with the humming which transforms into a hard drum beat, pounding in Miranda’s ears. She ducks into a roll, skimming over the floor and under the attack of the beast she’s responsible for. The creature screams furiously and doubles back, twisting in on itself as it desperately seeks its prey. Miranda slams into the trunk of a tree and scrambles up its side, swinging herself onto one of the lower branches. As soon as she is crouching, she takes aim, and an instant later she fires.

“ _Avada Kedavra,_ ” she growls, and the green light flashes forth, skimming over Regulus’s head, striking off one of his curls, and colliding with the magnificent creature. 

The occupy crumples to the floor, twitches once, and is still. Then she has only to watch while Regulus, nonplused at her damage to his hair, finishes the other beast in a flash of deadly green.

“Watch what you’re doing next time,” Regulus chides, running a hand through his dark curls and frowning at her with his aristocratic lips as she hops down from the tree. His pale skin is covered in a sheen of sweat; and dressed as he is in sarong and bare feet, he looks like a jungle prince. 

“If you aren’t bleeding, I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Miranda replies, taking the hand and the brief embrace that he offers. “Next time let’s take on the tebo. I’m bored with occamys, they’re so predictable.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

They pad across the floor as a pair of house elves scurry in to deal with the mess. At the end of the room they find the doorway covered with a heavy curtain, and push out into the candlelit hallway beyond. The sound of the urgent drumming is replaced by quiet strings, and another pair of house elves is ready, handing them black towels scented with lavender and hot cups of bracingly acidic tea. Angular painted maidens draped with writhing serpents of every color deck the walls, the women haughtily examining the patrons. It is rumored that Aubrey Beardsley himself oversaw the renovation just before his untimely death. Miranda and Regulus deposit their glasses and towels into the waiting hands of house elves in crisp linens, and start down the long hallway, the thick green carpet soothing the hot soles of their feet. Founded in the eighteenth century, Salome Nott’s Bathhouse is an exclusive club, and Miranda owes her membership to Narcissa Malfoy’s gracious sponsorship. 

“The common room’s not going to be the same without you this year,” Regulus comments.

Miranda’s eyes dart over, studying the smile that does not reach his eyes. “Why, because you’ll actually get some work done?”

He laughs. “I suppose that’s a side benefit. Without you causing so much trouble, I’ll have to resort to school work to stave off boredom.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Prefect. Maybe you’ll get a whole batch of naughty little firsties to keep you busy.”

“I certainly hope not. But I’ll be glad when this year is over.”

They come to the end of the first turn, and pass through a shimmering waterfall. The water is warm and soothing where it hits Miranda’s skin, and she reaches up to release her hair, working the drops into it. On the other side is a blast of warm air that dries them completely; and beyond this is a pleasure garden of heavily perfumed jasmine flowers. Long benches are arranged as artfully as the well-bred occupants draped across them, and further in lie tables manned by selkies--chained to their spots by their own seal-skins--and waiting to massage the patrons into glorious ease. 

“My Papa always says its best not go around wishing your life away. You never know how close you are to the end of it. Hogwarts isn’t so bad,” Miranda points out.

Regulus shrugs, and leads her towards a bench in the corner where his cousin Narcissa is holding court with Atalanta Yaxley and Kallisto Zabini. 

“No. But I’d rather be out in the real world,” he insists. “I’m ready. I don’t need another year preparing for tests that don’t mean anything.”

“I doubt the world is ready for you. But I’ll wait for Christmas so we can take on the tebo together.”

“I’m going to hold you to that. Hello, Cissy.” 

“Regulus. Randi. You look like barbarians. What have you been doing?” Narcissa says, tilting back her head to accept the kisses that both of the newcomers brush against her cheeks.

“What do we ever do? We were dueling in the beasts’ lair of course.” Miranda says, still bristling at Cissy’s nickname for her, even after all these years.

Atalanta and Kallisto slide over to make room for Miranda and Regulus, who take seats on either side of Narcissa. The warm air caresses their skin, and the floor opens to reveal a bath of rolling hot water beneath. Miranda gives a happy sigh as she slides her feet into the water and leans back, letting her eyes close, already thinking about what she is going to order for dinner when the cart comes around.

“There you are, Randi,” says a soft, sharp voice. 

Miranda stifles a groan and opens one eye, seeing Bellatrix Lestrange’s mass of black curls frizzing, even in the air enchanted against such humiliations. 

“Hello, Bella. Is there something I can do for you?” Miranda asks, shutting her eye again.

“Why, yes. I think you’ve spent enough time playing with the children,” Bellatrix purrs, and Miranda can feel Cissy stiffen beside her. “It’s time to come in with the grown ups.”

Her eyes open warily. “Oh?”

“ _He_ is waiting to see you. I suggest you don’t keep him.”

Her mouth goes dry, and she stands up with a nonchalance that she doesn’t feel. “I guess this is it then, Reg. I’ll see you in December.”

“Write to me,” Regulus says, his voice edged with an urgency that belies his relaxed posture.

“I will.”

Miranda follows Bellatrix through another door into a hallway that twists as it descends into the earth. The snakes that line the floor slither and hiss, and she tries not to watch them lest their constant motion make her dizzy. Bellatrix hooks her arm through Miranda’s and her touch is cold and clammy, like a dead man’s.

“I’m surprised he wants to bother with someone like me,” Miranda ventures in what she hopes passes for a humble tone. Her mind is racing, turning over every moment she can recall from the night when his minions cornered her alone in her flat. She’d understood it was a warning, and she wonders wildly if the time they granted her has all been spent.

“He does as he likes. I suggest you try not to disappoint him,” Bellatrix replies.

“What does he want?”

Bella laughs, a sharp sound like breaking glass, and doesn’t answer.

They come to a room at the end of the long hallway, and the heat rolls out of it to meet them. This paltry preparation is nowhere near enough, and when they pass beneath the arched serpents, Miranda’s breath is knocked out of her by the heat that hits her like a physical blow. The inside of the room is hazy with thick gray smoke, and candles of a dark umber pulse through the shadows. Bella drags her onwards, seemingly unaffected by either the temperature or the thickness of the air. When they penetrate a few feet into the room, the smoke clears enough that Miranda can make out the patrician profiles of noble men, reclining on chairs covered in thick occamy hide. Bella nudges her into the center of the room, and Miranda drops to one knee before the winged chair, and the regal man occupying it.

The smoke gradually swirls away from him, revealing tanned features far too smooth for how old he must be, and neatly arranged brown hair. His lip curls into a sensual curve when he sees her, and the golden flecks in his dark eyes glint with pleasure. His murmuring entourage ceases their prattling, and he extends a long-fingered hand towards Bellatrix. She grasps it eagerly, and drops her overly-full lips onto the serpentine ring wrapped around his index finger. His nails are immaculate, and Miranda has the odd sense that, if he wanted to, he could flex them out like cat’s talons and rip her skin from the bone. Bella is fairly trembling from the ecstasy of this simple touch, and he runs his fingers through her dark hair, tumbling it like water. She makes no introductions, but none are required. Miranda knows exactly who this man is—the power pulsating out from him would mark him even were she to see him without his royal companions. But sitting as he is, flanked by all the names that decorate Cantankerus Nott’s famous publication—he is Zeus in his bath, attended by the gods. 

And she is a bug waiting to be crushed beneath his foot.

“My Lord,” she breathes when he brings his hand round to hover beneath her lips. She knows she is not expected to talk, but holding everything she is feeling inside is impossible as excitement and fear crash together into an unbearable tidal wave of anticipation. He chuckles and the dark sound caresses the inside of her body as she brushes her lips against his ring. The twisted metal burns her lips, and his fingers turn, catching her chin and lifting it up until her wide gray eyes meet the dark light dancing in his.

He is magnificent.

“Miranda Rose,” he says, and she trembles to hear her name spoken in such a tone, as though it were a delicious secret. “I’m delighted to finally make your acquaintance. Your reputation precedes you.”

She knows that she should hold her tongue in his presence unless he questions her, but her mind feels untethered, as though she is watching this happen to someone else. 

“Whatever they told you, they’re damned lies,” she says, her words a clumsy staccato next to his languid caress.

There is an intake of breath from Bella and the rest of the court; she’s crossed the line and they are titillated as much as they are insulted. But then, that’s why they keep her around—she’s the court jester, allowed to live as long as she entertains.

He laughs and trails his finger over her jaw, guiding her to stand before him. When he takes his hand away from her face she regrets the loss of his touch and has to restrain her gasp of disappointment.

“Lucius, see to it that Miss Rose attends the next dinner you host for me,” he orders, his eyes still glowing at her.

“Of course, my Lord,” Lucius agrees, his white blond hair barely visible in the haze.

“You will do us the honor of attending, will you not? You are just the thing to enliven the evening.” 

The snakeskin she wears starts to vibrate with warmth, and she feels filthy and elated together. 

“I live to serve, my Lord,” she says breathily. 

He cocks his head to one side, and she knows he can see her laid bare before him. “You are a good liar, Miss Rose, but do not waste your skill on me.”

The idea that she might disappoint him is suddenly unbearable, and she drags up something she can say truthfully. “When you ask for me, I will come.”

“An excellent beginning. You may go, Miranda.”

His use of her Christian name sets her heart rate rushing the way the thrill of the hunt does. She rises and backs slowly out of the room. When the clouds of smoke again obscure the Dark Lord from view, she turns, but she pauses at the door, somehow knowing that the final exchange is meant for her to overhear.

“You have an objection, Orion?” the Dark Lord says, amused.

“She’s a mud-blood, my Lord. Not fit to dine in polite company.” Orion’s posh accent makes Miranda gag—but then it always has.

“Come now. You, of all people, must realize the necessity of judicious injections of new blood. I expect great things from our Miranda. _So perfect and so peerless, created of every creature’s best_.”

She steps out into the hall, and as the heat of the room peels away from her, she collapses against the wall, gasping for air. She feels empty now, and the snakes on the floor slither around her ankles as she catches her breath. The Dark Lord is nothing like she expected him to be; and her fascination with him now rivals her fear of him in its strength.

Her papa would tell her she is in over her head—but she has given Tom Riddle her word; and she will not fail to keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, this story is not abandoned. I am currently focusing on my main WIP [libera nos a malo](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/22596220/chapters/54000769). Once I have my WIP queue cleared up a bit, I will be back to updating this story, likely sometime in 2022. Thank you for sticking with me! Stay safe out there <3
> 
> Mrs Figg is Miranda's downstairs neighbor, if you missed it in chapter 1.
> 
> Rós Tearmann: Rose Sanctuary
> 
> Nebuchadnezzer II built the hanging gardens of Babylon.
> 
> Aunt Sally is a pub game where players throw sticks at a model of a woman’s head, attempting to knock it over without hitting the spike that it is perched on.
> 
> Wands made of Black Walnut are powerful and loyal wands; as long as their owner is honest with herself. If the owner is practicing any sort of self-deception, the wand becomes unpredictable and loses power. (per JKR)
> 
> Selkies are Scottish sea creatures that can transform from seals into humans by shedding their skin.
> 
> “So perfect and so peerless…” is from Act III Scene I of The Tempest by William Shakespeare.


End file.
